


Fragility

by sternflammenden



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Breathplay, M/M, Non Consensual
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-15
Updated: 2012-04-15
Packaged: 2017-11-03 17:15:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/383913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sternflammenden/pseuds/sternflammenden
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for an ASOIAF/GOT kink meme, prompt was <i>Theon/Roose, pre-Reek Theon is put in his place</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fragility

“I must apologize for my son’s behavior.”

Theon is shocked to hear this from Roose Bolton. He had assumed that the Lord of the Dreadfort was just as brutish as his bastard son, but it has surprised him to be treated with the courtesy befitting his station. While Bolton does not bow and scrape to the heir of the Iron Islands, he does not scorn him either, serving him occasionally from his table, and permitting him to keep his finery, at least to an extent. He’s no fool. Of course, Theon was searched by Bolton’s men, and his knife, the Kraken pin that clasped shut his cloak, weapons all, were confiscated, but that was only to be expected.

Theon wonders how much Roose Bolton knows. He wonders if they discuss Ramsay’s evening exploits over wine, if they laugh together as father and son over their new prize. He doubts this. Ramsay is a cold man, his father colder. But Theon is still unwise, still lacks the caution that he will come to prize as his safeguard, and replies tersely, “Can you not stop him?” Theon’s hands are shaking, but he hides them in his sleeves so that his host does not notice.

“I make it a point not to interfere with my son’s affairs, no matter how much I may disapprove of his rather…coarse methods,” Bolton says softly, studying Theon with barely disguised contempt.

“I am prince of the Iron Islands, Heir to the Saltstone Chair,” Theon says. “Would you give him such free rein if I were one of your Baratheons? Would you permit it?” He hears the wheedling note in his voice, and he hates himself for it. But in the back of his mind, he still thinks of this man, cruel as he is, as Ned Stark’s bannerman, and perhaps, just maybe, he can be reasoned with.

But it falls on deaf ears. Bolton shakes his head. “You are nothing now.” He smiles, but it is more like baring his teeth. “There is nothing but silence from your islands. The Ironmen falter at Moat Cailin.” His smile broadens as disbelief crosses Theon’s face. “So I would take care, Prince Theon.” Bolton almost caresses his name, mockingly.

He fingers the Kraken on Theon’s tunic, exquisitely wrought. Theon pulls away, and Bolton notes his repulsion with a casual disregard. “As should you, my lord,” he whispers, regretting it before it even leaves his lips.

“Is that a threat,” Bolton says then. It is not a question. “Keep in mind that you are here at my pleasure, and not Ramsay’s.”

Theon is silent as he remembers the feel of Ramsay’s hands, unwarranted, on the night that they brought him to the Dreadfort, the other man’s mouth on his, his teeth closing on flesh and wounding, devouring, the shame and the pain and the rage that he could not channel in any way save, when he was finally alone, in pounding fists until they bled against stone walls. He does not imagine that Roose Bolton will use him in the same base way as his bastard has. But they are of the same blood, and Theon knows that whatever happens tonight, it will not be pleasant.

“And what is your pleasure?” Theon says softly, his eyes burning despite his courteous tone. “Have done with it if you must.”

“You do not give the orders here,” Bolton says then, his hand on Theon’s throat, fingers like iron as they grip him, checking his wind just long enough to cause little sunbursts to blot his vision. When he releases him, he strokes the reddened area almost gently.

Theon does not move.

“So fragile, really,” Bolton muses, and somehow his hands are gripping Theon’s shoulders in the same vise-like way, and as the prince, now lost, closes his eyes, braces himself for what he knows will inevitably come next, and permits his captor, his master really, to bend him, to break him. And before he greys out, for he’s become quite talented at going away, he hears Roose Bolton’s laughter whispering in his ear, and he shudders.


End file.
